


Craic is the F-word

by toiletwithaview



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Crack, Drunk Texting, Fluff, Irish Language, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4205154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toiletwithaview/pseuds/toiletwithaview
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s Irish, Stiles. Craic. Craic is fun.”</p><p>“Derek? No, crack is bad for you. Crack is poor decision making, is human trafficking, is violent crime.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Craic is the F-word

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the middle of season 4, when Derek loses most of his powers and can therefore get drunk.

Leather was the only thing that survived their everyday lives, it seemed.

But he was warm and the leather felt like a living thing, binding him, trapping him, and he fought his way free. Free! He cast the heavy jacket on the floor and growled at it because it was a no-good, too-hot, too-tight thing.

Except it looked so sad on the floor there. He sank to the floor and crawled over to it, sniffing it before throwing it over his back. So sorry, Jacket. Jacket is best jacket. He kept to his hands and knees, easier this way than walking. Clambered onto the sofa, Jacket draped over the arm.

> Stiles, I’ve always known you were a strong person, but I could never have imagined what it was like for you, to be putting yourself in danger’s way time after time, without having a werewolf’s powers. I wish you could have met my mother. She would have liked you. She would have wanted you in the pack.

There. Send. Everything he’d been searching for the right words to say. Beer was a great idea. He had to go back and thank the guys there. Maybe tomorrow. It was comfy here on the couch. The bed was so close, yet so far away. But maybe if he pulled down the back cushions he could flop on top of them and it’d be like pillows. Flopping was a good action. Muscles strong but noodle pile instinct stronger.

The couch cushions made a sound when he rubbed his face against them. Definitely like sandpaper or a cactus. Or maybe it was making that sound because of his stubble, he’d have to shave if this was going to be scientific. But that would involve going to the bathroom and the sofa was squishy and horizontal was good for a position in the now. Stiles would forgive his lack of academic rigor. Maybe? Well, Stiles can shave him himself if he wants to. Stiles can. Oh hey, phone ringing, vibration bizz-buzzy.

“Derek, what the hell is going on? Is it witches? Come on, talk to me. Start talking or I’m gonna call Deaton, like, right now.”

“Hey Stiiiiiiiles…”

Stiles! Wait, what was that thing he was going to – oh right.

“My couch is rough and lonely but I’m not, you know, Stiles? Are you coming over to shave me?”

“Whoa, Derek, whoa. We are not –”

Stiles was totally flailing in his room that always smells like teenager and jizz and Stiles. Stiles. Flails. Diphthongs. Heh, dipfft-thongs.

“Are you drunk?”

“I had beer. I’m human now!” New-found insight! Appreciation for Stiles’ humanity! Medal of bravery!

“Yes, you are, Derek. How much beer did you have?”

“I… um… one… five… Five-ten? Fifteen. Fiff-teeeen.”

“Fifteen pints? Since I texted you?”

“Spaced out! Over time! I know stuff for humans!”

“Like thirty seconds apart? Dude, I texted you ten minutes ago.”

“Noooope. I was there for hours, Stiles.”

“I wish you could hear yourself right now. You, my dear sourwolf, are drunk. I am recording this so when you don’t die of alcohol poisoning, you will die of shame. I hope you realize I have better things to do on a Friday night than to babysit a drunk werewolf who wouldn’t know the meaning of moderation if it alpha-shifted and bit him in the ass.”

There was shuffling sound. Some clinking. And little Stiles grunts. Mmm. Stiles' grunts. Oh, still talking.

“Seriously, you get yourself drunk without bringing the only other person in the group who can as well. I was in my PJs, Derek. And now I’m putting on pants. Pants, Derek. And waking up my baby and driving over to your dark and broody den of woe. I’ll put it on your tab. Get it? Because we’re making bar jokes now.”

Stiles talks a lot. He needs to have more fun. More laughing.

“You! Should have been there, Stiles. It was good _craic_.”

Stiles made a funny sound. Always funny. Funny, sunny… runny? Runny Stiles? Ooh, eggs. He should make eggs when he gets off the couch. But the air is so heavy, and colors. When did that happen?

“Crack, Derek? Crack? Are you serious? Oh my god, that explains so much. Just hold on, okay? Keep talking to me. I’m getting into my jeep right now.”

“It’s Irish, Stiles. Craic. Craic is fun.”

“Derek? No, crack is bad for you. Crack is poor decision making, is human trafficking, is violent crime. Where did they even get it? There are only five drug dealers in town, and no one bothers with crack.”

“Stiles. Craic. Irish. Fun.”

“Oh my god, you mean… the pub is a front. Of course! That makes perfect sense. Nobody worries too much if people get a little rowdy, a little wild outside of a pub. An Irish pub, of all places. That’s genius. And they’re calling it ‘fun’? Do you have to wink when you say it?”

Stiles wasn’t getting it. Why? Stiles is sooo smart. And here he was spelling it out. Irish is a language for which there are words for things like “fun” and “craic” is that word. Craic is the word. Like bird. And Stiles. He should have gotten it. Should be getting it.

“ _Stiles_.” Get it. Just get it, Stiles.

“ _Derek_.” He doesn’t. Poor Stiles.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt from a longer piece that I'm probably never going to get around to writing (because there's another fic that I'm dragging my feet on that I've sketched out in greater detail). There's an inter-dimensional Irish pub that appears when you most need it. Derek's pretty down about losing his werewolf powers and literally stumbles into the pub. Shenanigans ensue.
> 
> Also, Drunk Derek & Leather Jacket is something I *needed*.


End file.
